Category Archives: change

Jan14

I eat fear for breakfast.

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It’s the middle of January. Did you make New Year’s resolutions? I didn’t. I never do. I can’t goad myself into change. If I decide to make changes, it doesn’t matter what day it is. Which is why I’m finding it amusing that I’ve just discovered I have fallen back into a very bad habit. And it needs to change. Today.

It’s a life-long habit, so plenty of practice under my belt. Seventy odd years or so, so I can be gentle with myself, but I’m on it. This bad habit is fear. And unchecked it will kill me. I’m a fear addict, and I’ve fallen off the wagon. I’ve talked for the last three months about this crippling grief and how I don’t seem to be coming out of it. This is where that spiritual advice I heard many years ago would come in handy: “Let yourself fall apart at the SEEMS.” What if this despair isn’t pure grief, but the fear demon has attached itself to me again? C.S. Lewis, grieving the loss of his wife, said “who knew grief felt so much like fear?”

Grief is a big gaping wound in your soul. And fear is an infection that sets in. But the treatment is simple, inexpensive, and readily available. I guarantee you already have the ingredients for the cure in your household.

When my son was going through cancer treatment in his early 20’s, I was a basket case. He had to be brave for both of us. One day in the hospital elevator he said to me, “I know I’m going to be alright, but what are we going to do about getting you some help?” I asked him, “aren’t you afraid?” To which he replied, “I eat fear for breakfast.”

I love the old acronym for FEAR: False Evidence Appearing Real. False evidence, indeed. It might have it’s basis in reality. But our conditioned mind takes hold of that dust bunny and knits us into a cocoon of despair in no time. Confusion sets in, and before we know it we are incapacitated. I certainly have been. Oh, the grief is real. The powerlessness is not.

And the solution? You know this. I know this. The simple home remedy? Creativity. In any form. Not art necessarily, although that would do for starters. But creativity. A creative act. One. Simple. Creative. Act. Watch a favorite old movie, bake muffins, rearrange the furniture, cook a meal, notice something you didn’t see before, write a blog post (journal), sew a different button on your shirt that doesn’t match the others…

THIS is why creativity is radical. It defies a pattern. It’s what psychology calls a pattern interrupt. And it is why creativity is said to be courageous. It doesn’t require anything terribly brave or outrageously defiant. It just is courageous and defiant. It’s a choice. It’s choosing life.

Fear is a bad habit. It’s using your imagination against yourself. It’s not healthy. And the only way I know to change or overcome a bad habit is to replace it with a healthier one. That’s why creativity heals us. It’s the practice of exercising our imagination in service to ourselves – to our life.

Creativity is an act of generosity to ourself. It’s a declaration of our intent to treat ourself fairly, magnanimously, as if we are valuable. “There is a truth and it’s on our side. Dawn is coming, let’s open our eyes.” I’m eating fear for breakfast. You comin’?

Dec22

the path of least resistance

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In my last writing, 17 days ago now, I said to myself “take the path of least resistance, Susan.” Suffice it to say that I am terrible at taking my own advice. In fact, I often feel as if I have done nothing but repeat myself here on this blog for over 13 years…I seem to be a very hard learner. This is not new. Dammit. It seems I have been this way all my life.

In the spirit of becoming, as I am trying to convince myself that I can actually live as a verb, ever embracing new habits in the effort to change, improve, evolve….I will once again return my daily routine to the basic practices of self care. I will get out of the shower and put a cotton ball soaked with castor oil in my belly button. I will slather my dry skin with Frankincense. I will write my morning pages, even if it takes me until 3 in the afternoon. Walk. It is cold and icy outdoors. True confessions: I bought myself a walking pad so I can walk indoors. I bought it on sale after Christmas last year. It has never been plugged in. The power cord is around here somewhere…have I ever mentioned that I talk a good game?

There will be no “New Year New You” resolutions declared here for my part. That would be hilarious! If I just stuck to what I know I’d be ahead of the game. When I would challenge my father in my teenage years to walk his talk, he would reply, “do as I say, not as I do…” I wish I didn’t understand that quite so well now as a Mother. I don’t want my child to follow in my footsteps; I hope he surpassed me years ago in every way. Run. Fly.

So. Back to basics. Self care – mentally and physically – is the order of the day. While I’m being honest let me also admit that I am still seriously depressed. I’ve been off antidepressants since my pancreatitis this past summer. I’m trying to stay off of all medications and cleanse my liver and pancreas. Losing Chewy in October has sent me into a tailspin. Grief and the inordinately dark days are kicking my butt. But the real honest-to-goodness truth is that I’m angry. I’m livid. And to explain this would take too long. Where would I start? JesusMaryJoseph, where would I start? I can legit justify my anger into the next millennium, and where does that get me? You got it – sick. It is making me sick.

In my old age I am acknowledging that I have always had an inner knowing that serves me well; that knows the way for me. You have this, too. And that inner knowing has never listened when told, “you need to grow a thicker skin.” No. I have become much too hardened already. I don’t like the world I live in. But I love the earth and the water and the trees, the sentient life; I only want to soften into it as I grow older.

Since I have been grieving I have had a strange companion out in my yard. A lone deer. It’s always by itself and it hangs around close to the house. It sleeps under the Hawthorne right outside my bedroom window. It is different than all the other deer that wander through the yard in large herds. It’s face is darker and it is of stockier build. So maybe the herd rejected it? Maybe it’s somehow disabled? I have no idea. I do put out carrots and veggies, especially now that I can assume the bear is hibernating. Most of the birds have gone with the harsh weather, but the crows remain close. The pair of bald eagles are back.

I’ve lost interest in almost anything I used to be interested in. I’m easily made anxious by any media. I avoid friends and any kind of activity. The poor grocery store clerk says the wrong thing and I’m in tears. I’m a pain in the ass. I don’t care. I’m done trying to be anything but honest, but I know most people will be uncomfortable in my presence. Let me spare them the ugly dissolution of my former self. Let me not pretend to codify their expectations. Something in me has died and I will not attempt to revive it. It’s free to go. I’m okay with not knowing who I am anymore. When I allow myself to sit with anger, it dissipates into grief. It loosens me and I can breathe again.

Awake in the middle of the night, I meditate. Last night I fell back to sleep and had one of those wild dreams where I am obviously visiting another time and place. I asked where I was, and was given a specific name. That isn’t unusual. Neither is getting up at 9am to Google it and finding out it exists, although as an ancient ruin. It was a vibrant community last night in my dream. I can only imagine that I was there for healing purposes. That is the prayer I fell asleep with.

These days I can read good writing. I can listen to good poetry. And I can look to Tiokasin Ghosthorse for inspiration, because he lives his life as a verb. As he wisely tells me, “do not try to heal the earth. Let the earth heal you.” Don’t try to understand your dreams; let your dreams understand you.

Nov29

under new management

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Life as we previously knew it…yeah…you feel it. I don’t want to write these days. I don’t want to talk. I seem to switch back and forth between two states: crippling grief, or a vaguely definable altered reality that I can only call pure awe. Joy. But not an excited ecstasy; not bliss. Calm knowing. A peace like nothing I have ever known. Nothing else registers – terrifying grief or cellular peace…for lack of the language to adequately describe it.

After weeks spent in terror and grief and yet surprisingly, not dying, I think I might be coming to terms with what is happening. Maybe. I’m not certain of anything right now. I do trust my intuition, the currency of life.

If I were a betting woman, which I am not – but wait – I am! I am betting my life. I am betting my life that this shift is planetary, it is cosmic, it is being universally experienced by everyone, and it is real. This is happenin‘, baby.

It isn’t aliens. It isn’t astrological. It isn’t your diet causing this wobbly reality. It’s your heart – and I do not mean the organ in your chest: I mean the intelligence in every cell of your body. I mean your spirit. Everything is psychic now. It always has been, but we are now becoming critically aware of that. And as of yet, I do not have enough language skill to explain this phenomena, but I will share with you what I can as I can.

The planet you are currently living on has transmuted. We are now living on the surface of a 5th dimensional being, no longer in a 3rd dimensional reality. In the event that you wish to stay in your comfort zone, you will need to learn to transform gold into lead.

In this mornings’ meditation, I asked for help to keep my heart open. The world is closing in on me. I don’t want to harden back up. That would feel like all this pain had been in vain. How do I remain soft in the face of terror? How do I embrace being defenseless?

The opposite of defensiveness is not safety. It is not vulnerability. Don’t you believe the people selling you vulnerability. They are telling you that vulnerability is somehow noble, or will get you where you need to go. It’s a halfway measure. You can still tether yourself to the past with vulnerability and avoid truth. Don’t settle for that.

The opposite of defensiveness is forgiveness. And I, for one, do not know how to do that. I do not know what forgiveness is. I know some things it is not. It is not acceptance. It does not mean that you accept the people who have wronged you back into your life. It does not mean you accept bad behavior in any form. It doesn’t mean you allow yourself to be treated poorly. That much I know.

Forgiveness is a concept to me; I don’t really know it in practice. I’ve grappled with understanding it for decades, held onto my righteous anger in order to survive, whether I was the recipient of the abuse or the self-righteous abuser. So I can’t fault the usefulness of my defenses; they got me this far. But I didn’t come this far to come this far. I have to take the lead shoes off now. I have to learn to forgive.

This awareness has blindsided me, as awareness often will. Moving forward with this new information will be an adventure; an experiment. I don’t really know where to start. I know that I will have to muster all the curiosity possible. And I know intuition, holy spirit, never leaves us alone here. And so I will begin with prayer: “show me how to forgive.”

“If it is impossible for you to go on as you were before, you must go on as you never have.” – Cheryl Strayed

Nov16

but don’t you believe them

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It’s another spectacular sunny fall day. The leaves have muted from their bold reds and oranges now; they are rusty and golden and pewter. Softer. I wish I felt softer. The past few weeks haven’t made it any easier for me to write, or talk. I’m experiencing some kind of spiritual disintegration; I can’t even explain it. Words fail. Words talk about. This isn’t about anything. This is my life.

I am 4 months shy of being 72 years old. Other than my joints, I feel 24. I’ve always thought that I was a deep thinker and an even deeper feeler. Only recently have I come across information that informs me that I am an HSP, or highly sensitive person. It was my middle-aged son, actually, who shared this with me. He cued up the movie about it saying, “This sure would have been helpful to know decades ago.” No shit. I’m sorry for both of us, as this explains a lot. Never mind I would have been a better Mom.

While this may inform what I am experiencing now, it doesn’t explain the depth of my grief, nor the enormity of my anxiety. C.S. Lewis wisely said, “No one ever told me that grief feels so much like fear.” I’m afraid, plain and simple. Terrified, in fact – like never before. That recent encounter with a huge black bear wasn’t this scary.

When I wake between 2-3am I give myself a good talking to, calm right down, and meditate. The energy doesn’t leave, but the terror does. The fear abates and a profound peace, also new in it’s intensity, fills this cavity I call my chest. It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know what anything means anymore. I don’t know what this is for, this life. I find myself questioning everything. I have never felt so completely and utterly alone, and so entirely part of the trees and the birds and the air and the life. I’m inside of a constant awe. It all feels new, so I am obviously being renewed beyond my previous belief systems. I don’t know about anything at all – but I do know it. I am aware that I am more now, somehow. I am expanding, and I am certain that you are feeling this stretch also, not yet able to define this. I don’t want to define it, because I don’t want to define it away.

So…nothing is the same as it was. I hold onto an expectation that the next few months will unfold me and I will find a new way to be in this new life in this new world. In the meantime, that’s just the way it is.

Nov6

“Yes, I am Bono.”

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“Poetry is language against which we have no defenses,” David Whyte tells us. My life must be poetry. It is a question – one big, fat, ugly, precious question right now. The question that I don’t want to ask, the conversation that I don’t want to have. I cannot turn away. I do not know what is true any more. If I try to understand, nothing seems real. No one describes this surreal distortion better than poet philosopher David Whyte. He’s the only person I can stand to listen to at the moment, for he translates grief back into human language. Everybody else just gets on my nerves. I can’t talk to you right now; I don’t know how.

“Sometimes if you move carefully through the forest, breathing like the ones in the old stories who could cross a shimmering bed of leaves without a sound, you come to a place whose only task is to trouble you with tiny but frightening requests, conceived out of nowhere. But this place, beginning to lead everywhere – requests to stop what you are doing right now and to stop what you are becoming while you do it. ”

Stop. Anything you think you are doing at this moment is a performance of who you think you are. Of who you were. You are not that. You do not know who you are. Stop kidding yourself. Stop.

My brother Ward was so much like my Mom. They were terrible worry-warts. Small, wire-y, tenacious, intelligent and hilarious. They used to tell the rest of us, always tired trying to keep up, “sleep is highly overrated; you can sleep when you’re dead.” Which they are now. Both dead. Bright stars who burned out far too fast. I do not know how to live without them.

But the grief that has me paralyzed today is the loss of my cat, Chewy. Many – maybe most of you, might think, “a cat? Really? And you’re devastated?” Yes. I am. Devastated. It has been almost 2 weeks and still I can hardly breathe. I cry myself to sleep several times a night. My stomach is in knots. My world is in some time warp that does not allow focus. I can’t seem to get a grip on any semblance of reality, of my life as I knew it. I have changed. Life has changed. I don’t know who I am anymore.

This grief has gripped me in it’s talons like nothing I have ever experienced before. I don’t care that it isn’t logical. I don’t care that I cannot scale it into the size of my life. Perhaps I have lost the plot altogether. I’ve certainly lost my sense of sanity…speaking of something that is highly overrated…And yes, I can explain this deep chasm as an accumulated grief. Loss in my past has always been amongst family and many friends, during my work life, still having other pets to care for, while being busy. Even the loss of my last 2 dogs, elderly and ill, was during the pandemic, and about 6 months apart. Everything was surreal then and nobody thought anything of it. This is more understandable if I want to put it into that context – I don’t. I don’t want to allow myself to think my way through this experience. I don’t want to risk losing one iota of this opportunity to be transformed. And so I must feel my way through it. And I do not know how to do this.

Chewy came to me unexpectedly 8 years ago. I was not looking to adopt a cat. He was being displaced and a friend asked me to foster him temporarily. We had 8 years together, approximately 2,920 precious days. I pretty much wasted about 2,918 of them having no idea what a tremendous and powerful gift he was. Do not expect me to diminish his significance in any way. I will not. In many ways I am only beginning to grasp the scope of this loss.

In this fascinating and insightful interview, David Whyte tells the story of standing on a street corner in Dublin waiting for a bus. A young boy was staring, and finally mustered up the courage to ask him, “Are you Bono?” David paused. And in a prescient moment of absolute presence he responded, “Yes, I am Bono.” A meaningful exchange occurs, and David must admit that he does not know the importance of it. Perhaps that brief moment was why he was here, on the planet. We aren’t given to know all. In that split second he was exactly who the child needed him to be. His spirit was entirely available. He could be generous. It mattered.

And that is the essence of my loss. Chewy was entirely available and generous. His life mattered.

Oct23

turning honest limits your choices

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Please bear with me; I can’t talk right now. I’m silenced by grief. But I can listen to the mystic Carolyn Myss, because she speaks truth. Truth to power: meaning, to you and me. I’ve had some extraordinary awarenesses come to me as I sit vigil with my dying cat. I cannot articulate them yet.

I cannot yet explain what a powerful influence this little being has bought to my life. It would not make sense to you. None of this makes sense. But my animal body knows the truth of it. I know what I know. I know the enormous, unlimited love he has served my life with, the truth he carried here to bless me with. The healing he facilitated daily. When he could not protect me he called a black bear to patrol in his stead. We have lost his body and by no means his spirit.

What I can share at this time is the truth school of Carolyn Myss. Carolyn Myss is The Hanged Man. The Hanged Man archetype is the embodiment of God knowledge, to the degree that the human body can tolerate it’s force without dis-integrating. Think Dr. Ellie Arroway in the movie Contact – she did not disintegrate traveling through space and time. She returned changed, with knowledge that would serve all of mankind. No one believes her. She must find a way to communicate her knowing. Carolyn Myss is that person – she found a way to get the information across to us “mere mortals.” I don’t where I would be without her, or without the feline revolutionary I knew as Chewy.

Today, because there isn’t much else I can do, I am going to keep listening to this on a loop, praying to God that I just might grok some of it. That maybe, just maybe, I can become better at distinguishing between the lies of tribal conditioning and the Truth of God, of Life. Join me, and just for today, let your credibility be stretched beyond belief. Be honest about what you know, even if you sound crazy to most. Because you can no longer deny truth. Your body recognizes it. And turning honest limits your choices.

Oct5

if I had a hammer…

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“I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.” – Anais Nin

If you would please be patient, I’ve been a bit manic this week. Got a bee buzzin’ in my bonnet. Change is afoot, and I’m not sure what it’s about yet…it’s a feeling, a sense. When I’m not busy painting the house and all the furniture in it, I’ve been reading and working through the exercises in The Prism, just out from Laura Day. It is changing me; it couldn’t not. And my world is beginning to shift like a glitch in the matrix. Reality is a little wobbly. I have had these experiences every so often throughout my life – enough to trust that I’m in exactly the right place at the right time. I’m safe, protected. Spirit has got my attention.

Awake in the early morning hours as usual, I was sitting up in bed reading just before dawn. A strange woman walked right through my dimly lit kitchen, clearly visible through my bedroom door. I looked straight at her, knowing she wasn’t “real,” or at least solid (I’d have heard her come in.) I must have startled her. She saw me, stopped, and backed up. Like, “oops, she can see me…” I laughed out loud. I have no idea who she was or why she was there. Just passin’ through, I guess. She certainly got my attention.

At the moment I’m not so solid either. My body feels a bit like it’s being pulled in two directions at once. You know the feeling…vertigo comes and goes, you don’t sleep soundly. Heavy foods don’t appeal, but you need some extra protein. So pay attention to self care, be mindful of your diet; keep it clean. No sugar. And do activities that are grounding. Health is a priority right now.

The weird phenomena I’m noticing may be the position of the planets, the effect of 3I/ATLAS, or something in bloom in my garden. I don’t need to understand it. I need to use it to redirect my life, which is obviously going through an adjustment. Don’t resist the adjustment, rather make it a healing. Pay attention – pay attention to intuition. Laura Day is right about it; it is a superpower.

Have you also noticed how differently the wild animals are behaving lately? They are trying to communicate with us. They’re asking for help. They’re also offering. The birds and squirrels are leaving me gifts outside this fall. And trying to get in. Are they offering rent?! One squirrel keeps trying to leap in the window, bouncing off the screen. I’m tempted to rent her a room. Perhaps she came to tell me that Jane Goodall has passed away. A crow came and perched two feet outside my window, looked straight in at me, and talked right at me moments after my friend and neighbor Hal died. I knew exactly what it was saying. He was their friend, too. They know when something has shifted in our world.

And I keep waking with song worms playing in my head. They’re often songs I have not heard in half a century. I’d completely forgotten them. I suddenly smell cigarettes; I’ve never smoked. I hear faint crying when no one is around. A breeze gently rustles the trees outside and my grandmother’s plate falls off the wall at that same instant. I can’t explain any of this; again, I don’t really care to. I do trust it. Let’s just summarize by saying the veil is thin. I’m not quite sure what that means either.

I’m going to look at a house for sale today. I’m in no position to move. But I noticed the little house last week AFTER having dreamt about it. No idea what that is about. But I do know enough about intuition and how it works to ACT ON IT when you get it, because you never know where it will lead.

My dear Mother used to play the guitar and sing. This was one of her favorite songs; it woke me this morning. What is she trying to tell me? What is this song about? Well, it’s time for a change. It’s about equity. Remember equity? Justice? Compassion? These are all values my Mother taught me. They are certainly being pressed into use these days. At any rate, she’s singing to me. She’s reminding me that I have a hammer, I have a bell, and I have a song to sing. I DO clearly know what that means. It means I am a powerful, creative being. I have agency. Everything I think and everything I do effects my life and the world around me.

Remember, you heard it here first: Ultimately, it will be the artists who save us. It always has been. It always will be.

Sep3

home is a many-layered thing…

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First journal? Scrapbook? We were kids when we started, eh? With a diary in grade school. So, for me that was the 1950’s. Although I was drawing as soon as I could hold a pencil (per my mother), magazine tear sheets wouldn’t come into being until I was in high school in the 60’s. But once I discovered magazines a whole new world opened up, quite literally. The world became a much smaller place once it was delivered to the mailbox.

It began with Seventeen. Barbie grew up and dressed in Betsy Johnson. But it wasn’t long before art and shelter magazines like Metamorphosis and Architectural Digest and Rolling Stone broadened my horizons. And then The Sun.

Suddenly my life was too small. I couldn’t wait to leave the boring suburbs for real life in the city. Little did I know…I wouldn’t get too far too fast, probably a good thing. Family kept me close and I set aside the acceptance letters to RISD and Parsons and New York School of Design for Wayne State and Center for Creative Studies, known then as Arts and Crafts. It was across the street from the fabulous and inspiring DIA, to this day one of the best art museums in the country. It was my familiar stomping ground as I would often skip high school (I still got A’s & B’s) to spend the day roaming the galleries, dreaming and sketching. Other days you’d find me on the 13th floor of the J.L. Hudson Company, moving from vignette to vignette in the furniture and design department, imagining what I would do with that room.

It had never occurred to me that I would be anything but an artist or a writer. It wasn’t what I did; it was who I was. Fast forward five+ decades and I look back, longingly some days. At the life I sidestepped somehow, too young married and mothering and clambering for survival. The demons were lurking in the shadows, fighting amongst themselves for attention. They were not to be ignored. In retrospect, I wouldn’t trade any of it – but that realization happened just the other day. It’s a process, like me. I’ll have to keep you posted as to when I solidify.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (has that euphemism become old?!) some things have not changed much. I’m still obsessed with art and music and design. As I said, it is who I am. I was born this way. That’s why I keep insisting that you cannot miss your purpose. You don’t need to search for it; God hardwired it in. You can miss the option of different vocations – but your purpose is not a job. It’s who you are. It’s your calling. And spirit – your spirit – will nudge you toward happiness and fulfillment ceaselessly. Every day every day every day. You will realize yourself one way or another, sooner or later. And you will relax into being. You are whole. And holy. Right here, right now. Try to enjoy yourself already.

Aug21

bugger

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“People without a sense of humor will never forgive you for being funny.” – Joyce, The Thursday Murder Club

In my fantasy life I host a writer’s group once a month. Or maybe we pretend to be a book group or a writer’s group but we really solve murders. We gather around my gorgeous little antique dining table in the upholstered rattan chairs and talk and ponder all afternoon. We have tea, coffee, perhaps a sip of prosecco. We open little party gifts we’ve made or collected for each other, and we eat cucumber sandwiches and scones with lots of cream…someone falls asleep out on the veranda in the chaise lounge. It’s just a little nap. Some drooling might occur, but no one will hold it against you.

They love coming to my home, because, well, let’s face it – I know how to entertain. And put together a list of suspects. No one leaves hungry, and everyone leaves excited and hopeful and full of new ideas. It will be hard to sleep tonight.

In my actual life, a dear friend is moving into a new apartment in a retirement community, as did another friend not long ago. I’m experiencing pangs of jealousy. First of all, I love being old. Helen Mirren said “the best part of being over 70 is being over 70.” So hanging out with peers is ever so appealing. Young people just don’t get it. I want no-holds-barred brutally honest communication – and I also want to be home in my pajamas by 8.

All of my adult life I’ve wanted for nothing more than a big, raucous house full of family and friends. Kids and grandkids, constant coming and going. Music playing and spontaneous dancing and laughter and laughter and laughter. And a private office off my bedroom with a door that locks when “I vant to be left alone.“

That was my childhood home, and I spent the last 50 years of my life trying to recreate it. But it wasn’t real. It was a sham. My childhood home was also hiding terrible neglect and abuse and dysfunction. The big loud happy home was just for show. My parents wanted the happy home, too; they also didn’t know how to make it happen. They didn’t know how to face the addiction demons. Neither was I going to be able to create the life I wanted; I had not a clue how to go about it. And so shame tends to creep into my dreams and cloud my sleep. When I wake I feel entirely like a failure. Where did I go wrong?

That’s where the deep sense of failure stems from: I’m smart…but not smart enough to have figured this out when I was younger. To have stopped trying to please everyone else and keep everyone else safe; to have known that survival mode will never get you where you want to go. I was slow to understand that love is not transactional, nor negotiable. I wasn’t just quite smart enough to know that we really cannot earn our way to health and happiness…to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I AM already everything I could possibly dream. My loyalty and devotion were misplaced outside myself.

And now I have lived long enough to know the privilege of looking myself in the mirror and asking, “IS that what you really wanted? Or perhaps, is there something far more valuable to be gleaned here?” And now I can let myself fall apart at the seems. I grieve the life I spent trying to fulfill a fantasy that, in fact, I would not choose now. Now that I belong to myself.

“Hope is a renewable option: If you run out of it, at the end of the day, you get to start over in the morning.” – Barbara Kingsolver

Jul11

the world is made of spider webs

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“When I’m an old lady I want to be one of those women that has a house full of plants, weird rocks and crystals. That just looks after her animals, paints and minds her own business with her crazy hair.” – unk

Well I don’t know who said that, but I am that woman now! It’s the second week of July already. I’m getting around to spring cleaning. Better late than never I suppose. For starters, it’s been a little-shop-of-horrors-like around here for a couple of years now. I seem to have a green thumb (I am an old witch, after all.)
I take home little forlorn plants from the grocery store clearance for $3. and two years later there is nowhere to sit in the same room. One small monstera I brought home (it had tipped over and lost half it’s dirt) is now eight feet wide and ten feet high. Seven years ago I bought a foot-high Norfolk Island Pine (indoor only in my climate) to use as a tiny Christmas tree and it’s almost hitting the ceiling now. My son helped me move the plants out to the back deck the other day. They aren’t coming back in. I need to find homes for them. Removing them has opened up every room and it feels so spacious in here I could dance. No really – I could actually dance in here.

This is a small house. Originally built as a summer cottage by a University of Michigan professor, the idiot I bought it from tore out most of it’s original features and knocked out walls to create an open floor plan. If you don’t know how I feel about that you might read some of my older posts. Suffice it to say that open floor plans are an abomination of the human spirit. They suck the dignity out of relationships by unnaturally forcing everyone in the household to share the same noises and smells. It feels like living inside a shoe box. Open floors plans are for worms…just sayin’…

But I live in an open floor plan, because, well, it was the right house in the right place. The plants apparently like this arrangement. They have taken over, spreading from the studio to the kitchen and the living area to the dining area. And down the stairs and across the ceiling. This ends now. I’m taking back my home! I love nature, and I will always have a few plants. But this has become ridiculous. I’m ducking and penguin-ing myself around them.

For my next trick, I’m deep cleaning all those creepy corners I haven’t been able to reach or crawl into. Getting all the spider webs and tumbleweeds of cat hair out. Eeeeewwwwww…and I have taken down the curtains and washed them. Everything has sticky dust. And I wonder why I’m so sick all the time?! Twelve loads of laundry later and the place is looking like new.

So here’s the thing. I’ve read a bazillion books on decluttering and feng shui-ing your space back into order. Psychology journals about how decluttering helps your mental health. And I’ve always done it throughout the years…in little increments. It has never felt like this. Maybe because I’ve been ill? It’s true that I’ve never let my home get this dirty and cluttered before. But something about this is coinciding with a huge shift in awareness.

A few months ago I participated in a Beta test group for a program designed to help older women traversing life changes. I’ve mentioned it here briefly, and I will provide a link for you at the bottom of this post. It’s called the Wayfinding Road. I don’t know what any of us were expecting, but this process with this group of remarkable women has been beyond helpful. The small group I was working with included a recent widow, a woman retiring and moving across the country, a woman whose husband was ill, one who had left the country and relocated to Europe, one who is a political refugee in exile. All manner of circumstances – one uncompromising commitment: a life of continued growth. We quickly realized we had much in common despite a wide variety of life experiences. Soon after the 6 week program began I started having dreams with these women in them. And my dreams were fantastic, adventurous and profoundly healing. I was wealthy beyond measure. Something supernatural was happening. We discovered we were all having experiences we could not explain. We started calling it “magic” for lack of a better explanation.

I have never met any one of these women in person. I have interacted with them only online and via email. If one of them called tomorrow and said “I need your help,” I’d be on a plane. They taught me how to love myself. I’m done with depression and shame and guilt. They taught me how to stop performing my life and begin to live it, deeply. They are well educated, articulate. Some of them speak more than one or two languages. They are all extraordinary. The 2nd time we met I confessed to feeling unworthy of their friendship – but I knew I had 2 choices: drop out or show up. I showed up and they lifted me higher.

I hear them talking to me in meditation, telling me precisely what action to take to heal myself. This morning’s meditation told me that my chronic pain and illness serves only to remind me that I took on the responsibility for my family, and that it is long past time to let them go. Not only can I not be responsible for them, but this addiction to saving them is not helping anyone. I gave it up today and got out of bed pain free.

My life has begun to change now in the last few months. Not in any way I had planned. It’s still going on; it’s a process. I don’t know what this means or where it will lead me. Watch this space. But wow…change is afoot.

Lynnelle Wilson is the creator of Wayfinding Road. Contact her through YouTube or Substack: